


of dandelion seeds and mugs of tea

by arbhorwitch



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Frottage, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Sleepy Sex, i thought that was one word i guess not, jeez john calm your boner, kind of idk lazy smut basically, see this is why i'm not allowed to tag things, this was really just an excuse to get sap everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbhorwitch/pseuds/arbhorwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's the air you breathe and the sky you wake up to every morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of dandelion seeds and mugs of tea

You wake up around eleven but you can’t work up the strength to actually move. The body beside yours is warm and smells of faded cologne and you realize that it’s Sunday; no job, no chores, just a day to yourselves to do absolutely nothing and that’s exactly what you’re going to do.

John stirs and you let out a yawn, stretching your arms above your head and sinking deeper into the mattress, blankets piled tightly over the two of you. John laughs quietly, capturing your lips with his and you cup his cheek with your hand. You can’t imagine either of you having the most pleasant of breaths; caring takes too much energy and you tug him closer so he’s nearly on top of you.

“Morning,” he says, grinning, and god you love him. “What’s for breakfast?”

But as much as you love him, you are not getting up.

“Nothin’,” you reply; your voice is thick with sleep, laced with tiredness and your drawl peeks through. John smiles like it’s the greatest sound in the world. To him, maybe it is.

(you know his voice is the best sound to you.)

“So you’re just going to be a lazy ass all day?”

“Yup, and you’re goin’ to join me.”

He looks ready to argue so you meet his lips again, nibbling on his bottom lip lightly as your hand roams over the bare skin on his back; you can feel the knobs, can tap them with pale fingers, and his slenderness has always been both beautiful and terrifyingly real. He responds to you with eagerness, a bit too much teeth but it’s good enough for you as one of your hands dip below the waistband of his boxers and squeezes his ass.

He jumps, you grin, he changes his mind about getting out of bed.

“Cheater,” he mumbles after pulling away, and you echo his earlier laughter as his head drops to your neck and his teeth brush over the sensitive skin. He knows your weaknesses, knows you from the inside out, and you wouldn’t have it any other way as he laps at the irritated flesh. He moves to your collarbones and you sigh, hot and bothered and craving more already.

“Eager, are we?” you ask, feeling the very prominent tent in his boxers poke your hip. He snorts before a hand is suddenly palming you through your own briefs and wow, you knew he was excited, but you hadn’t been expecting that and you end up bucking your hips and moaning lightly. John laughs and you retaliate by using your hand on his behind to grind him forward; he groans your name and you smile hazily.

You’re going to enjoy this.

You end up with both hands on his hips, bones jutting out beneath the white cotton of his too baggy shirt, and he’s flushed and panting and you begin a lazy pace. He’s gorgeous, blue eyes glazed over and half-closed, lips reddened and his face, oh his face—smooth as porcelain and glistening with sweat, you’ve never seen someone more beautiful, more open.

You remember why you fell in love with him all over again.

Losing yourself in the pace means losing your train of thought and he jerks, palming the both of you with a shaking hand and you’re crying out his name like a fucking mantra. It’s not long before you’re pulling him down for a messy kiss, wet and urgent as you come undone and spill over into his hand. He’s not far behind, murmuring an i love you into your lips before arching his back and gasping.

One thing you’ve learned about John Egbert is that he’s quiet in bed.

You love it.

You both spend a few moments catching your breath; sticky and content and satisfied, you really don’t want to move, and John seems to share these sentiments as he slips off his soiled boxers and tosses them to the floor before doing the same with yours (after careful maneuvering on your part) and then you’re both curled up together under the blankets. His mouth is warm against your neck and you shiver lightly, hand playing with the dark strands of hair laying flat against the pillow.

“What happened to breakfast?” you tease, tangling your legs with his.

“Mm, I think I can think of a good alternative…”

You snort because jesus fucking christ you’re still coming down from your first high; your dick twitches at the thought, but you know neither of you are going to be doing much for the next little while.

In all honesty, you live for these moments; his breathing is light, airy—his heartbeat is strong within his chest and though he’s all sharp angles and skin-stretched bones, he’s somehow soft and fits against your own frame easily. You’ve got a few inches on him and when he leans up on the tips of his toes to kiss you, it’s one of the greatest feelings you’ve experienced. And as he’s drifting off, wrapped in your arms, your body his own personal blanket—

you can’t help but love him even more.

(it swells within you until you’re not sure you can breathe without him.)

-

You wake up a few hours later with the bedside clock ticking close to two in the afternoon; there’s something (or rather someone) missing when you crack your eyes open and you groan, still not ready to drag yourself out of bed.

John knows this.

He pads into the room (and he didn’t dress earlier, wandering around the apartment in his too baggy shirt and you can’t help but admire the way his muscles jump when he walks—!), carrying two steaming cups of what you assume to be tea. Sitting up, blanket pooling around your waist, you accept the mug and let it warm the palms of your hands. It’s green tea by the smell of it, your favorite, and you know he’s made vanilla chai for himself when he slips under the blanket next to you and smiles.

(he drinks it very specifically: he lifts the mug and breathes in the scent, shuddering just the smallest amount, before blowing away the steam and sipping slowly to avoid burning his mouth.)

“So, what are we doing today?” he asks and the smile still hasn’t left his lips. You shrug, nuzzling his shoulder with your head because honestly, you don’t want to face the day; there’s a steady rain beating against the one window in your shared bedroom and the wind is howling something fierce. You’re certain that if you were to step outside you’d be frozen in a matter of seconds; the roads are going to be hell to navigate tomorrow, but Washington winters are still one of your more adored seasons, if only for the promise of thick sweaters and cuddling from the only boy you know to actually love the cold.

(because when he slips out the door in a spring jacket with the temperature is reaching below zero, you want to throw him on the bed and stop him from walking into his doom; but he just laughs that one laugh and doesn’t react when the bitter wind brushes against his skin.

if anything, he guards it. you don’t quite understand, either.)

You realize he’s waiting for an answer and yawn, the mug’s warmth bleeding through the rest of you; the tips of your toes curl and your veins flood with heat the moment you take a sip of the slightly bitter drink, feeling slowly returning to your limbs but the lull is still settled over you and John’s just going to have to deal with it.

He kisses your head, sets his mug down on the bedside table before reaching for yours as well. You let it go without much fight and shift so you’re laying against him, his chest rising and falling, a physical lullaby drifting into your subconscious and reminding you of pointed lenses that had become a sort of sanctuary.

(you miss him more than you’ll admit to anyone; john doesn’t need you to speak to know this.)

“Hey, Egbert,” you manage and your voice is still caked with all sorts of tired, a low rumble that puts a strain on your throat; maybe you’re getting sick.

“Go to sleep.”

John drags the blanket over the two of you again and the curtains are closed—when had he closed them?—and there’s hardly any light shining in the room. You’re grateful; there’s a pounding in the base of your skull and you know what it means, you know what the migraine feels like when it finally wraps around your brain and squeezes and you don’t want to be awake when that happens—the thumpthumpthump in your temples, the unbearable brightness that the walls bring, the twisting behind your eyeballs that leads to hours spent under ibuprofen and heavy blankets.

But then he’s playing the piano in your hair and you’re gone in moments.

-

This time, when you wake up, there’s no missing body in a bed that’s too big without him.

He’s asleep right beside you, light snores slipping past chapped lips and nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He looks exhausted and while your eyes are weighed down with the restlessness your headaches bring, you can see that there are shadows where flesh should be on his structured face; he wears himself thin so often, you’re waiting for the day he collapses under the burden of people’s problems and concerns.

(you’ll be there to catch him and shun those who take him for granted; you always are.)

You reckon you could watch him sleep for hours on end, but he stirs when you shift to catch a glance of the clock; the lights burn your retinas red (the irony is not lost on you) but you manage to register the time—7:56. You’ve both slept the day away and you’re okay with that.

(and you don’t know how you managed to score the boy with the bright blues eyes brighter than the sky itself cloudless and optimized to perfection and you, you don’t know how he could fall in love with you, with your beating-heart eyes and empty chest and you’re so in love with him it physically pains you sometimes—!

because he’s the warm mittens on a winter’s day and the blossoming flowers in the prime of spring, bleeding pollen and colors and breathing life into something cold and dead.)

“You’re thinkin’ again.” The sky settles against your chest and breathes against your collarbones. You have skeletons in the closet and he’s dug them out so many times you’re not sure how he can possibly stay. “Stop it.”

“Can’t stop someone from thinking, Egbert,” you reply, stretching out and arching your back. The migraine is mostly gone; you’ve combated it this time, thanks to the boy furling against you. He snorts and kisses your neck, fingers drifting across the expanse of your chest.

You’re not letting him get the upper hand this time.

Instead, you give yourself some momentum and end up straddling John, lips working against the junction where neck meets shoulder and he’s already squirming beneath you. He’s hot and bothered and his hands search for something in your flesh, mapping out miles in your veins and dust in your bones. You’re a master with your own hands and you slide down his body, leaving a trail of saliva and breath ghosting over his skin. It’s not long before you’re tugging down his boxers and swallowing him whole and he keens; your hands thumb circles over his hipbones, pressing him into the bed, and there’s a reason you don’t have a gag reflex.

You know what he likes—you swallow, bob, tongue the salt-sticky beads.

You know what he loves—you hum, lick, taste and touch and he’s shivering gasping moaning your name under his breath.

(when you both started this intimacy thing, you nearly panicked and it turned out it was john, john who was the one leading you and that was when you learned you trusted him with more than just your life.)

He spends himself with one last dave oh god yes through wet lips and you drink him in, milk him for every last drop before crawling up and kissing him in the most languid way you know how. It’s soft and he tastes himself on your tongue; there’s a glow to his cheeks that you lit up.

And then there’s a hand sneaking its way downdowndown and you drop your head to his shoulder, muttering curses and heated love confessions into the sweat-slick flesh that is John. He’s well aware of exactly how to elicit the various responses from you and you’re coming undone in a matter of seconds, shuddering legs weak thighs shaking chest heaving.

You kiss him and he whispers three words against your lips that has you melting all over again.

-

(there are many, many things you know about john egbert—the way he likes his eggs, how many mugs of tea he can burn through in two hours because coffee leaves him feeling somewhat discontent and jittery; or how his eyes light up when he manages to kick your ass at mario kart, leaving you in the wake of his victory.

his hands clench the sheets when you’ve prepped him enough to push in and his voice struggling to escape when you slide in just right; the labored breathing that echoes across your ears and the i love yous that bleed from your pores.

you breathe insecurities and find yourself drowning more often than not, bathed in white-washed scars and puckered skin; he grasps your monsters and turns them into dandelion seeds in summer breezes, meadows upon meadows of consistencies and constants you no longer can live without.

but you wake up to cotton candy clouds and bubblegum sunsets and he’s always there to remind you how your lungs work—

and where your heart rests.)

**Author's Note:**

> omg ok so i posted this on tumblr 5ever ago but cam roped me into posting something so yeah im gomens


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